Sepulchre
by RowenProvis
Summary: Mary Monroe knows Bobby Mercer isn't nice, but he's a fighter. And sometimes that's all you need. It's scary how well contrasts can compliment each other. And it's funny how the most enduring of alliances can be formed through lifelong struggle.
1. Chapter 1

_**Sepulchre: Chapter 1**_

_xxxxx_

_1976_

xxxxx

In the July of 1976, when America was celebrating its 200th year of freedom, I was still recovering from the first year of my parents' independence from each other. Being the product of a newly divorced marriage had been strange, but because only five years old I managed to adapt fast.

Kids have always been great at adapting, because, really, what other choice did we have?

In the police station all the officers crowded around the television, where the flickering screen was showing us a firework show. We watched as they were projected up into the black sky, only to explode into a brief moment of color. With each new firework the East River in New York City lit up like a Christmas tree. A very patriotic Christmas tree.

But thousands of miles away in Detroit our own sky had decided to put on a light show of its particular choosing. Even from inside the thick walls of the station I could hear the dull roar of thunder. I scooted closer to the television, keeping my eyes trained on the colors. Blue. Red. White.

"Mary," My father knelt down beside me, holding his police cap with both hands and fiddling with the rim. "Hey kid, enjoying the show?"

He was watching me closely, and I knew he was feeling guilty for keeping me hauled up in a building when all of our previous July fourth celebrations had included cookouts and baseball with other families from the police precinct. And my mother. She had always been there too.

My dad knew this and offered me his shaky smile. It was the same smile I'd seen all throughout the past year. A confused, uncertain smile that was both sad and sweet all at once. It was the smile of a man still reeling from a divorce. The smile of a man uncertain what to do with his five-year old daughter on his designated weekends. It was the same smile he had offered me each day we'd sat in court, watching our family divide in two.

I thought it was a good smile, if only for the consistency it offered me.

And so I smiled back.

"I guess," I shrugged before setting my chin back on my knees. "Do you think it's storming at mom's house?"

"She only lives across town," He looked over at the television. "It's pretty safe to assume it's storming there too."

"Monroe!" My dad's partner, Lawrence, yelled from the doorway. "Come on, we got to go!"

"Coming!" My dad yelled back, before pushing his cap down over his red hair. "I have to go sweetie, we just got a call. The guys here will watch you until I get back."

"Okay," I nodded, kissing his cheek before he stood up. On impulse I wondered, "Will you go check on mom? To make sure she's okay?"

He paused, glancing at me, then back to Lawrence who only sighed and disappeared into the hallway. He smoothed his hands over the black material of his uniform and offered me that same smile. "The storm isn't so bad, Mary. Your mom will be fine."

And before I could respond he ruffled brown the mass of frizz I called hair, and then he walked out into the hallway and into storm.

I jumped up from my seat and moved to the window where I could look down onto the dark street three stories below us. I waited and watched as his patrol car left, the lights barely visible through the sheet of rain. I couldn't even hear the siren.

"Mary, come back over here," Sal called for me from his seat near the television. "Have another hotdog; your Dad will be back soon."

I hesitated but eventually sulked back over. Three hotdogs later and I was feeling a bit better. My father's friends teased me, saying how impressive my eating skills were. "Be careful with that appetite, girlie," They would joke. "It'll catch up to you." I had a shorter, beefier frame than most young girls, and the other kids at school kept me aware of it. Later in life I would blame my dad's short-statured Irish genes and my mother's unhealthy cooking, but at the age of five I was only aware that I looked different. Not fat but not skinny. Just different enough to get teased.

"Leave the kid alone," Sal laughed good naturedly. "She's still growing."

"Exactly," I agreed with him, grabbing for another frank. "And besides, I bet I can out eat any of _you_." I bragged, but directed my attention to Sal, knowing he was always extra amused by me. "If I can eat this hotdog faster than you can eat yours…then you have to let me go play downstairs."

Downstairs a woman named Harriet worked the front desk and on days when my dad had to go out she would let me sit on the floor by her chair, giving me pictures to color and books to read. She was one of my favorite people in the department, and despite the fact that she often smelled like cheese, I preferred my afternoons sitting behind her desk the most. Generally because from that spot I could peer out and watch for my dad to get back.

Sal smiled. "Deal."

xxxxx

"Quiet now," Harriet motioned me to sit as she handed a paper to someone across her desk. I obeyed, hunkering down on the ground and pulling my knees up to my chin. I could wait there quietly for hours until my dad returned. Patient and trying to keep out of people's way.

And finally, after what felt like a short eternity, I heard my father's voice and the slapping of wet shoes against the floor.

"Hey Monroe," Harriet smiled and I watched her face as it left my father and looked lower. I couldn't see much, so I crawled the short distance to peer around the corner of the desk. From my position on the ground I could see the towering and soaked form of my father. Rain dripped from the edge of flat nose and his red hair seemed brown in its waterlogged state.

"Harriet, can you do me a favor?" My dad asked before suddenly stepping back and allowing me to see the kid that had before been hidden from my view.

I couldn't tell at first if it was a boy or girl, because the kid's hair skimmed down around the rise of shoulder blades. It was dark and ratty hair, which fell into the kid's face like a sopping mask. The generic clothes didn't offer too many clues either, just old blue jeans a size too small and a red shirt that had seen its better days.

For a brief moment I sat wondering. It didn't look like any boy or girl I'd ever met. It stood too still and made not noise. The mess of hair, the sinewy form, and the tensed stance was more like some kind of monster I'd seen in a movie than any child.

And yet when I stopped myself from imagining, I knew in the end it was still just a kid. A kid that needed to get dry and changed, and probably needed to eat judging by the slim frame I could see through the soaked clothes.

"Who is this?" Harriet asked, echoing my thoughts. I could hear my father sigh, but I didn't look away from the kid.

"We don't know," My father muttered, his tone was even and held only a slight trace of frustration. "Lawrence and I found him in an alley when we were chasing our perp. Nearly tripped over him in the dark."

_Him_. So it was a boy.

"Did the suspect get away?" Harriet sounded amused rather than concerned.

"No, we got him. Lawrence is bringing him in a second. We had to send for another car because we didn't want this kid to have to sit next to some criminal." My dad nudged the boy in the back, but he didn't even flinch, just kept his head down and his thin shoulders squared.

I watched a puddle form beneath the boy's feet as water slid from his hair and clothes. It was impossible to tell where he was looking because his hair had managed to hide his face and eyes so well. I assumed he was watching the puddle too.

"I'm guessing this favor has to do with him," Harriet made a sniffing sound and her hand motioned at the kid.

"Could you keep an eye on him while I fill out some paper work and call social services?" My dad waited and I assumed Harriet shrugged because he reached out and hesitantly touched the boy's shoulder. "Hey kid, everything is fine now. How about you go sit in those chairs and Mrs. Harriet will take care of you. Sound good?"

"Fuck off," The boy had grown notably tense the moment my father's hand had made contact, and his biting words surprised me with both their vulgarity and their anger.

My dad drew back his hand, seemingly shocked as well, but instead of getting angry he only looked discouraged. "Well, at least we know he can talk," he joked awkwardly before directing the boy to go sit in the chairs across the room. When the boy didn't move or speak my father seemed to give up and just walked off to file a report.

"Go sit down, young man," Harriet instructed when it became obvious the boy wasn't moving.

I hesitated, torn between going after my father and retreating back behind the relative safety of the desk. I wasn't afraid of the boy, there was no real reason to be, but he did unnerve me for some reason. But before I could decide what to do I noticed the clenching of the boy's fist at his side. His hand was smaller than mine, more boney, and it was shaking. His entire body was shaking and I didn't think it was from the cold rain.

"I said to go sit down," Harriet sighed. "Officer Monroe will locate your parents and they'll be here shortly. Now please go and sit."

"Make me," The kid snarled, his chin lifting for the first time, and I shrunk back so that I could no longer see around the corner. He reminded me of the angry dogs I often saw pinned up in a yard. Angry and rough and tense. But unlike a dog this kid wasn't restrained by a leash or fence or anything.

Harriet didn't seem too concerned, however. The kid _was_ a great deal smaller than her, so probably a great deal less intimidating.

"Children these days," Harriet sighed before shifting in her chair to stand. I peeked out in time to see the boy jerk back, bracing himself to run.

"Wait!" I hopped up so fast I almost lost my footing and just barely managed to avoid hitting the edge of the desk.

Both the boy and Harriet looked over at me, startled. Harriet must have forgotten I had been sitting there, while the boy seemed surprised enough by my sudden appearance that he jumped about an inch. Embarrassed but not completely discouraged, I moved towards the boy in quick steps. He seemed to be bracing himself.

"Mary, come back here," Harriet regained her cool and called to me.

"Just wait a second," I told her and then to the boy I whispered, "Just wait."

From a closer position I could now see through the curtain of his tangled hair and noticed the murky brown of his eyes. Eyes that were glaring out at me. Daring me to do something, but I just offered a small shrug and smile. He was at least an inch shorter than me and looked about ten pounds lighter. And although he looked spitting mad and reading to slug me, I figured some part of him had to be scared.

Something was keeping him from running out into the rain.

"Let's go sit down until your parents get here," I suggested kindly. When he didn't reply I rolled my eyes. "Come on," I urged, reaching out to grab his hand and pull him after me.

He resisted for a moment, and I could hear the soles of his sneakers squeak as I managed to drag him a short distance. Then he seemed to take pity on me and reluctantly followed me over to the row of chairs, belatedly remembering to yank his hand away with a string of swears.

"Whatever," He muttered, flopping down into a chair so hard I knew it must've hurt. "Fucking idiot."

"Well, thanks," I rolled my eyes again. I was uncomfortable with his language but not completely unused to it after spending the only five years of my life hanging around a police station. It just seemed strange coming from a kid that seemed about my age. "What's your name anyway?"

When he didn't respond I fidgeted and looked back at Harriet who seemed to be watching with a mix of amusement and concern. But the boy seemed to be sulking and I felt kind of bad for him. He looked absolutely miserable in his ill-fitting clothes that seemed to have molded to his skin due to the rain. I knew from experience that walking in wet jeans was enough to make anyone's mood sour.

I snapped my fingers and smiled. "One second," I told him before jumping up and jogging back over to Harriet's desk. Without much coaxing I was able to borrow the hair brush and scissors she kept in the drawers of her work station. I walked back over to the boy with an air of satisfaction. "Ta-da!"

"What now?" He grumbled but I saw his head tilt slightly when he noticed the brush.

I held it out like a peace offering. "I figured you could use this."

"What clued you in?" He replied sarcastically but I figured he wasn't completely angry because he still reached out for the brush. His hair looked like a hopeless mess of tangles and I wondered if the brush would get stuck. "What're the scissors for?" He asked and I startled.

I fidgeted and offered him a sheepish smile. "Oh, well, I thought maybe your hair…"

"You gonna cut my hair?" He seemed more amused than annoyed now and I just shrugged.

"I've cut my Barbie dolls' hair before, it can't be that much difference," I reasoned. I chose not to tell him what a massacre I had made of my dolls' heads. My mother had been angry with me for days after each hack job.

"Damn," The boy sighed when at last the brush did get wedged in his hair. Pretty deep too. "I guess it doesn't really matter. It's not like it can get much worse than it is now."

Once in agreement we headed towards the restrooms located next to the sitting area. A brief spat landed us in the men's bathroom, but only because he'd threatened to run out of the station before going into the ladies room. He closed the lid of a toilet seat and sat as I climbed up on the tank behind him, my legs spread out on both sides of him and the top of his head in easy reach.

The first two snips of the scissors were hesitant, but when he didn't lunge away or say anything to stop me, I gave into my girlish desire and attacked his hair full force. I cut the brush free first, making a patch of short, uneven hair near the top of his head. Then I continued on, watching as the locks and tangles fell to the dirty bathroom floor.

"You sure you know what you're doing?" The boy asked only once, but I prattled off assurances with enough enthusiasm that he seemed slightly placated. "Well hurry up, I can't hate sitting still this long."

I ignored his ire in favor of tilting his head back to rest on one of my legs. This position allowed me to get at the hair in front of his face and this time I went slower and cut with care. I brushed my fingers across his forehead, lifting the jumble of hair away from his skin so I wouldn't accidently knick him. I had once gouged a Barbie's face because I hadn't been careful enough. For some reason I doubted this boy would be as forgiving with such a blunder.

"Almost done," I babbled, telling him with each snip that his hair looked _so_ much better than it had. He snorted but kept his mean comments to a tolerable amount. I was use to snide remarks and could pretty easily let them role off my back. And besides, I was having fun.

As I continued to cut the knotted hair, his face became visible. He was staring up at me, probably had been for a while, and though this made me anxious I didn't say anything. Now that his eyes weren't hidden, I could see the ring of green around the edge of brown. He had dark, unsettling eyes and a small scar ran from the corner of his left eyebrow to the edge of the lid. Under the onslaught of his stare I was reminded of the kids in my class that always glowered at me as they teased. But he seemed merely bored as his eyes rested on my face, and a mildly irritated expression pulled at his lips and eyebrows. I had a sinking feeling that his face was permanently stuck in that peeved look.

"You've got a shit ton of freckles," The boy eventually commented, and not exactly with the most tact.

I bit back a sigh and sheared a lock of his hair a bit too close to his scalp. He didn't seem to notice but it looked ridiculous and made me feel slightly better about his scrutiny.

"Thanks," I breathed out. "I've been told that before."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, the kids at school have some kind of rhyme made up about it," I admitted, though I regretted it the moment I did.

"For real?" He got an odd smirk on his face. "How does the rhyme go?"

I touched his temple and lightly brushed off some stray hair as I tried to buy myself some time from answering. Finally I replied, "I don't really remember how it goes. The kids at school have a lot of rhymes about me, so I can't quite remember."

That was a lie. I mean, yeah, there was a group of kids at school determined to make each day miserable for me and they did make up nasty rhymes…but it wasn't like I couldn't remember them. How could I forget? I would be eighty-three and probably still be able to recite each insult they hurled my way.

Those kind of things cut into you like knifes and never really scar over, no matter how many years pass. They just remain open wounds that occasionally fester and hurt all over again.

"You get made fun of a lot?" The way he said it wasn't really a question, but instead sounded more like an accusation.

"I guess so," I confessed, but then quickly pulled a chunk of his hair and cut it with renewed fervor.

"Ow! Damn!" The boy loudly complained before refocusing. "Why do they make fun of you?"

I didn't really know why they made fun of me. I had spent hours wondering why the kids at school seemed to target me, and though I'd lost some serious sleep, I hadn't come up with a solid answer.

"I guess… it's because…because of how I look," I assumed out loud, my hands falling away from his head and my eyes looking over at the stall door.

"Ch," He made a disapproving sound between his teeth and I realized he was disapproving of _me_. "You care about that shit?"

"No," I quickly defended myself. _Yes_. Yes, of course I cared.

"So what if you're ugly?" He asked and I sucked in a startled gasp, because I definitely hadn't expected him to come out and say it. Before I could formulate a response or work up a good cry, he lifted his small, boney fist and bopped me lightly on the nose. "Next time they say something just hit them here. That'll make 'em stop."

"Yeah?" I smiled and rubbed my nose.

"Yeah," He sat up off me and shook his body a bit as he stood. "Are we done?"

"Looks like it," I brushed his shorn hair off my clothes and grabbed his shoulder for support as I hopped down off the toilet. He glared at me before opening the stall down and walking out. The men in the bathroom seemed uncomfortable with the sudden appearance of two young kids and I scooted towards the door.

"The fuck did you do to my hair?" The boy looked sickened at his reflection in the mirror. He touched at the uneven ends of his hair and I saw his face redden slightly with anger. "What is this?"

"Um," I laughed awkwardly and he looked over at me, wide-eyed. "Sorry?"

"Sorry? Look at my hair!" He huffed and hollered and I leaned back against the door, allowing the other bathroom patrons to uncomfortably shuffle around me in order to leave. "You destroyed it!"

"It's not like it looked much better before," I tried to reason and when he sent me another irate look I just looked up at the ceiling, counting the light bulbs in an attempt to ignore him. "I tried my best." I muttered moodily.

"Stay in school," He joked and ran his fingers through his hair. "You don't exactly have a career with this."

I gave him a look that clearly said '_I'm five_' but he ignored it in favor of a few more complaints and careless insults.

"Let's go outside," I prodded. "Maybe your parents are here for you."

I really wanted to see my father, but I didn't want to admit that to this boy. I didn't want my dad to worry, though, if he couldn't find me upstairs. I cracked the door open slightly, hoping he'd get the hint or I'd just have to leave him there.

"I doubt it," The boy leaned against the sink, which was much too tall for him to use easily, and started to wash some of the dirt from around his neck. I hadn't noticed before that he was kind of dirty, probably because the rain had made him seem cleaner than he was.

"I'm sure they're out there and worried," I insisted. I knew my parents would have been gushing all over me with worry by now.

Again I looked back at the door, wanting to find my dad.

"I don't exactly have parents to worry about me," The boy said abruptly.

"Oh," I frowned. Then, "So you…"

"I'm an orphan, yeah, sure," The boy flicked water in my direction and I flinched away from the spray.

"Your parents died?" I asked, my voice almost stuttering with emotion. I couldn't imagine not having my parents alive.

"Fuck, I don't know, they just aren't around—Jesus, you ask a lot of questions," He rattled off some more irritated words but I ignored him in favor of pouting. I barely asked him any questions; maybe _he_ was just too sensitive.

I tried to defend myself, "I wasn't-"

"Can we not talk about it?" He cut me off but before I could reply the bathroom door swung open and made us both jump. A man wandered in, spotted me, and then confusedly went back out. When he realized he had in fact gone into the right bathroom the first time, he wandered back in and told me gruffly to please leave.

Once out in the sitting area again, I spotted my dad hurriedly speaking to Harriet before seeing me. A brief flash of relief went over his face before he marched over to us.

"Mary, why didn't you wait upstairs for me?" He asked, crouching down and taking the scissors from my hand. I looked down at the ground, embarrassed, and he sighed. "Just go sit with Harriet while I talk to Robert here."

I blinked, confused, before I realized the boy had been standing behind me the whole time. He had reverted back into his quiet, defensive mode that he had come into the station with. I opened my mouth to ask if he was okay, to tell him to be nice, but instead all that came out was an unsure:

"Robert?"

"_Bobby_," He corrected me with no small amount of disdain dripping from his voice.

"Well, Bobby, I got in contact with a social worker who linked your description with a boy that went missing two months ago," My father stood back up, looking at Bobby with a mix of wariness and sympathy. He looked down at a file in his hand. "_Robert Jay, placed in temporary housing at the Keat residence, went missing May fifteenth after an alleged argument with his foster father_."

I had a feeling there was more on that file but my father stopped and I was glad because I hadn't quite understood all of what he said.

"Argument?" Bobby repeated, and his lips twisted into something that was not quite a frown but not a smile either. "Is that what he called it?"

"Come on Bobby, let's get you to your social worker, he's waiting for you in another room," My father ignored the rising fight in Bobby's eyes. The warped hollowness of Bobby's face, and the rigid way he held his small frame made me nervous. I didn't really understand what was happening and I wasn't sure I wanted to.

"Fuck you," Bobby bit out. "I'm not going back there."

My eyes went wide and I struggled between defending my father and figuring out what was wrong with Bobby again.

My dad frowned, rubbing his red hair into a slightly mussed look. After regarding the defiant boy for another moment he sighed, "If I promise you won't have to go back to that place, will you come with me to speak to your social worker? He's been worried about you these past two months."

"I bet," Bobby rolled his eyes and for a second he looked over at me, waiting. But for the life of me I couldn't figure out what he wanted me to do or say or think. So he looked away and I let out a breath, feeling oddly sorry.

"We'll place you somewhere new," My dad cajoled, offering his smile of mixed certainties. "Anywhere is better than living on the streets, Bobby."

"Want to bet?" Bobby retorted but so softly I don't think my dad could hear him.

"Mary, dear, come over here!" Harriet called and I spared her a glance but hesitated.

"I'll be back out in a second," My dad told me. "Then we can go home."

"Okay," I agreed but I looked over to Bobby for some kind of hint.

He seemed only minutely calmer. The anger was still there, just below the surface, and ready to rise up again at a moment's notice. He was agitated and looked almost trapped. Perhaps he was regretting the fact that he hadn't run off when he had the chance. But instead of blaming me he just turned and offered me an indecipherable look.

"Remember," His low, slightly disconcerted tone made me fidget. He made his hand into a fist and to my shock lightly bopped me on the nose. "Hit them there and they'll stop teasing."

I blinked and before I could respond he was following my father away.

xxxxxx

**Four Brothers is owned by Paramount Pictures. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Sepulchre: Chapter 2**

xxxxx

1980

xxxxx

There were once great men in this world. Men filled with strength and honor. They were so brave that their feats gave birth to legends and their legends would not die.

My father told me these legends each night before I slept. With words he painted me pictures of his homeland, and the heroes that haunted it like the supernatural creatures of lore.

I liked to think that great men still existed.

I liked to believe there would be new heroes.

But I doubted these heroes existed in Detroit.

xxxxx

"Mary, Mary quite contrary…"

I closed my eyes as the taunting started, and resolved myself to ignore it. The small group of girls giggled, eager for some sort of response, but I knew they would leave once they didn't get one. They weren't real bullies; just little gnats that hovered around what they thought might be trash. They did it out of instinct, which made them annoying but not dangerous.

"Mary, Mary…" One of them began again, but faded out when the others didn't join in.

I doubted they even knew the rest of the rhyme.

"She's such a weirdo," Another decreed with a sense of finality and then their footsteps pounded as they ran away.

Off to play.

I opened my eyes to find that I was alone again in my hiding place beneath the old slide. No one used it anymore since the rusted slope had begun to collapse, but the school didn't have the money or time to tear it down. So each day at recess it became my temporary haven. Though sometimes interlopers broke through.

I rolled onto my stomach, ignoring the way the mulch dug into my skin. Resting my chin on my hands, I watched the other kids run around on the playground. The girls from before were already emerged in a game of tag while other kids jumped rope or played ball.

And there I was, lurking beneath the slide like a troll.

_They're right_, I thought, _I'm such a weirdo. _

I began to idly run my fingers through the dirt, tracing out letters and making little divots and piles. I listened to the distant chatter of the _normal_ children, but couldn't make myself get interested in it. That was until I heard Claire, the class drama queen, call across the yard.

Her voice carried the news, "There's a new kid!"

No one really responded, and they hardly quieted, but I knew Claire's words held importance for everyone. Being a new kid meant you stood out, and standing out was never good in elementary school. A new kid seemed to be the equivalent of fresh meat, and I felt sorry for whoever it was. More threatening vermin than gnats would gather around fresh meat.

No, this might warrant the attention of the wolves.

My eyes looked unbidden to the edge of the schoolyard where a group of kids loitered suspiciously near the gate. My stomach twisted as I recalled insults and old bruises.

_The wolves._

I forced myself to look away and reminded myself that those kids hadn't bothered me in days. And it had been weeks since any of them had attempted to hurt me. Though this didn't necessarily guarantee my safety, it still settled my nerves slightly.

A small, selfish part of me hoped that this new kid might act like a diversion, and that the negative attention might not fall on me anymore.

In the cool, shaded dirt I wrote out the first lines of that nursery rhyme that was now stuck in my head.

_Mary, Mary quite contrary,_

_How does your garden grow?_

I let out a dry laugh before raking my fingers through the dirt and erasing the words. Recess would be over soon, so I pushed myself up off the ground and emerged out into the sun. It wouldn't hurt to get inside early.

I dared the trek across the playground, dodging a basketball as it whizzed past my head. The boy hadn't been aiming, but I glared at him nonetheless. When he glared back I walked faster.

The door was only a few feet away when a hand landed on my shoulder, pulling me to a stop. I flinched and turned.

Crystal, Carrie, and Claire.

Crystal was the most popular girl in our class, not because she was prettiest, but because she was toughest. She had an edge to her eyes that unsettled the other girls, and she had a way of talking that could build you up or tear you down within seconds. Carrie and Claire were her minions, but they were still dangerous in their own ways.

"What do you want?" I asked warily.

Crystal frowned at me and instead of answering she asked, "Where do you think you're going? Recess isn't over yet."

I hesitated, knowing to be careful around the girl. I managed a casual shrug and replied, "I was just heading back to class."

"Such a suck-up," Carrie rolled her eyes and Claire smiled in return.

The two girls were flanking their leader, as usual, but neither seemed too interested in me. That gave me some hope that this exchange would be over soon.

Crystal didn't acknowledge them, but kept watching me. My face heated from their attention and insults, but I tried to ignore it as Crystal stepped closer.

"Mrs. Ward really likes you, right?" Crystal asked, but in a tone that told me she already knew the answer.

"Yeah, I guess," I responded anyway.

Crystal was quiet, considering me as I fought not to fidget. "Do you always go in early from recess?"

I swallowed and nodded.

Her lips quirked, "Good."

Before I could question her, Claire stepped forward and poked my stomach. I jumped as her nail dug into the pudgy part of my belly. The moment I had turned nine I seemed to have shot up taller than most of the girls in my class, and though I wasn't exactly fat, in comparison to Claire I must have seemed enormous. She was a little thing, who looked more like a blonde doll than an actual child. Her hair always fell in perfect ringlets and her big blue eyes were deceivingly innocent.

She picked off a piece of mulch that had stuck to my shirt when I was lying in the dirt, and gave me a bright smile.

"What have you been eating, Scary Mary?" She asked, her tone sweet and curious, and I hated her even more than before.

"Silver bells and cockleshells," I said before I could stop to think.

The three of them stilled and gave me a confused look. A little disturbed by my own strange comment, I took a step back. They suddenly broke out in peals of laughter, making me flinch. But Crystal did not laugh; she remained silent and still as she watched me.

"God, she is such a weirdo," Carrie laughed, unknowingly mimicking the insult from earlier. "Such a freak."

My face was flaming hot, and before they could continue I turned and fled towards the school. I had just wrenched to door open when Crystal's voice halted me.

"Mary," She called. "Soon, I'll be asking you for a favor."

I looked back over my shoulder to see them all watching me, smiles tugging at their lips.

_And pretty maids all in a row_.

I escaped inside the school, not daring to look back again or even consider the meaning of her words.

xxxxx

When I entered the classroom, short of breath and covered in dirt, Mrs. Ward spared me a concerned look before focusing back on her papers. She was used to my slightly spastic behavior, and I had a sinking feeling she pitied me for it.

"Find your new seat, Mary," She instructed in her typical brisk tone, "And pull out your reading assignment from yesterday."

I nodded, though she didn't see me, but my eyes had caught sight of another kid in the classroom. At the front corner of the room, closest to both the windows and Mrs. Ward's desk, a boy was slouched over in his seat and ignoring me. In case he caught me staring I began searching the desks for my name card, but my eyes kept trailing back to him.

That must be the new kid.

Once I was sure he wasn't going to acknowledge me, I freely regarded him, taking in his short, dark hair and stained clothes. He was pale, and though I couldn't see his face, I somehow knew his eyes were closed. And I had the strangest impression that his eyes would be green.

I shook off the odd sense of familiarity and continued looking for my desk.

Being a boy gave him some hope of survival as a new kid, but he seemed small and thin, and I already foresaw danger in his future.

Seconds before the bell rang, signaling the end of recess, I found my new spot in the classroom.

Sitting next to Claire Baker.

I wished I were dead.

"What's wrong, Mary?" Mrs. Ward asked. I must've made a face.

"Nothing," I lied and slid into my new seat just as the bell sounded.

I mimicked the boy's pose and slumped against my desk. The metal was cool against my forehead and I concentrated on that feeling, ignoring the kids that were wandering into the room. There were sighs of disappointment as they noticed the seating change.

"Alright class," Mrs. Ward's voice rose above the clamor. "As you may have noticed, we've changed seats again. Please find your new desk partners and settle in for today's reading lesson."

A few groans were heard, but I stiffed when I heard Claire's voice beside me.

"Well this is a surprise," She said, though her sugary tone had lost a bit of its normal composure. She was annoyed. She had been sitting next to Crystal before, and now she had been demoted.

The pretty blonde slid into her seat neighboring mine, and her plastic bracelets clicked loudly against the metal as she adjusted. When I didn't react to her presence she sighed.

"Come on Mary, this will be fun," She nudged my arm. "Don't look so down."

Claire was a firm believer in catching flies with honey rather than vinegar, but it was all just a hunting tactic for her. That girl was a spider and I knew better than to fall into her trap.

So I didn't respond.

"Before we start, I'd like to introduce our newest student," our teacher's voice finally settled the class. Curiosity won out and everyone grew quiet.

I peeked up, and with the rest of the class I focused my sights on the small boy in the front. He was now sitting up straight, his shoulders drawn tight. Even from my spot in the back of the classroom I could see a faint bruise on his neck, half-hidden by the collar of his shirt. My eyes traced the uneven mark.

"Everyone, meet Bobby Biedron," Mrs. Ward waved her hand, indicating for Bobby to stand, but he remained seated. The older woman frowned, but tried to let it slide. "I want everyone to do their part to be kind and welcome him, it's not easy being new."

A low murmur began throughout the room, and I flicked my gaze around, noticing that I wasn't the only one that thought it was strange he hadn't stood. The other students were now eying him both curiously and eagerly. I felt an instant pang of guilt.

Hadn't I just wished that he would take everyone's attention away from me?

Now that it seemed to be happening I just felt anxious and guilty.

I caught Crystal's gaze, and she held my eyes knowingly.

She was the only one not distracted by the new kid, and I had the sinking feeling that no diversion would work on her. I wondered what kind of favor she could possibly ask of me. And I wondered, not for the first time, why she had singled me out to torment.

When she finally looked away I breathed a sigh of relief and looked back at my desk. Today was confusing, and it wasn't even halfway over yet. Next to me, Claire fumbled through her papers to find her reading assignment. I ignored her noisy search and put my head back on my desk, closing my eyes.

I should have stayed beneath the slide. Being a troll was preferable to this confusion.

xxxxx

My father had not adjusted well to the divorce. It was as if he had woken one day to find, to his surprise, that his arms had somehow gone missing as he slept. And though he knew they were gone, despite himself, he kept expecting to wake and find them there.

I stayed with him on the weekends, and I often found him fumbling—disoriented from his sudden loss. He sometimes set the table for three. And though no one ever came to occupy the third spot, neither of us would clean up the plate of food as we ate and did our best to ignore the empty seat.

Later, while my father dozed in front of the television set, I would scrape the untouched food into the trash and drop the plate into the pile of dishes that sometimes sat dirty for weeks.

There were times he realized what he was doing. He would be absorbed in the television and would call for my mom to get him a drink, or he would buy wine despite the fact that no one by my mom ever drank it.

In those moments he would look around, confused, as if he had just jumped into the ocean and completely forgot he had no arms to help him swim.

"Well, Mary, I guess that's just how it is," He'd say to me, and in a way that cryptic response was oddly comforting.

He was lost, and I knew this, but I felt we were lost together and so it didn't seem so bad.

When I started cleaning the dirty dishes, fearful of cockroaches, he would thank me in an embarrassed, hapless way. But when he caught me taking the wine, still corked, to the old woman in the apartment across the hall, he just gave that smile of his. That smile adults give when they want you to think they have everything under control, though it's apparent they don't.

He was a more tired, sad version of the father I had known a few years ago—before the divorce. Later in life I realized that he was probably lonely, and perhaps even depressed, but as a kid all I knew for certain was that he was lost.

Struggling to swim but finding he had no arms.

We sat one morning, eating dry cereal because he always forgot to buy milk, and he just looked at me and smiled.

"Well, Mary, I guess that's just how it is."

xxxxx

Bobby was not to be messed with.

That much was painstakingly clear as his first week of school drew to an end.

He did almost none of his class assignments, and when confronted by Mrs. Ward he would kick up such a fuss that the older woman would be left red in the face and looking particularly hopeless. What he lacked in argumentative skills, he made up for in stubbornness and bullheaded aggression.

He didn't care if he was sent to the principle or required to sit inside during recess. He didn't seem to care about anything.

From my spot in the back of the room I would watch as his shoulders drew tight in what I was coming to realize was not anxiety, as I first suspected, but defiance. And each time I saw him tense, and his neck color slightly with anger, I knew we were in for the whirlwind that was Bobby.

Most of the kids were scared off by his behavior in class. They saw quickly that he wasn't an easy target, and knew they were outmatched before the fight even began.

Yet some kids weren't so easily discouraged, and on the third day after his arrival, Bobby was jumped when we were walking to lunch. Two minutes later, by the time the teacher had broken through the crowd of kids, Bobby had already broken one boy's nose and had kicked the other boy so hard that he had to miss school for two days.

Though I slightly suspected fear and embarrassment kept him home more than the bruised ribs.

The teacher saw Bobby as a hellion, some kids saw him a punk. A bully. While the rest regarded him as a challenge.

I figured he was some sort of demon. Nothing could be so small and yet still so dangerous.

Whatever he was, I knew better than to cross his path.

It was easy to avoid him, and throughout his first few days I did nothing to gain his attention. But I sensed it was somehow only a temporary peace. Between hiding away from Crystal and her minions during recess, ignoring Claire's honey-coated insults during class, and dodging the line of Bobby's wrath—I knew I had to slip up somehow.

The moment came during math lessons on Friday. I was just a few short hours away from the weekend, and so close to my escape to my father's apartment that I was lulled into false security.

Yet shelter was not quite within my grasp.

My head was bowed, thinking over the problems, when something smacked against my forehead.

I startled and drew back to see a folded piece of paper had landed on my desk. When I looked around I saw that no one else had seemed to notice the note, though I felt that Claire was watching me from the corner of her eyes.

I covered the note with my hand, hiding it in case Mrs. Ward looked my way.

_Ignore it_, I told myself.

That would be the smart thing to do. No one ever passed me notes, so I should just shove it away to throw out later. Nothing good could come of this.

But try as I might I couldn't make myself discard it. I tried to work on my math problem, but my mind could not focus. The paper was pressed against my palm, and the feel of it bothered me.

Giving into my curiosity, I opened the note in my lap, cautious that Mrs. Ward didn't catch me.

'_We need to talk_.'

The simple, carefully written phrase chilled me. Although a name wasn't enclosed in the note I knew exactly who had sent it.

Crystal.

I looked up, but the other girl wasn't watching me. She was frowning, looking at her page in what appeared to be confusion. She was terrible at math, while I was naturally good at it, but I knew better than to believe she'd be asking me for help studying.

No, this favor would be much more harrowing.

"Go to the bathroom," Claire's whispered order startled me and drew my attention away from Crystal.

"Why?" I whispered back.

She sent me a look that clearly said I shouldn't be asking questions, but I persisted.

"Why?" I pressed.

She rolled her blue eyes and her bracelets clicked loudly as she crossed her arms. When she noticed I was still waiting, watching her, she pursed her lips and glared. She reached over and pointedly tapped the piece of paper, still laid in my lap.

"Because." She replied in a definite tone.

_Because the queen decrees it. _

That part didn't need to be said. Claire knew I'd go where I was told, and Crystal did too. And the sad thing was, I knew it too, though I wished I had the strength to reject them.

But I couldn't help but wonder—what would they do to me if I refused?

It was that wonder, that fear, that made me fall into line. I raised my hand, signaling to Mrs. Ward that I had to pee, and then I left the classroom like an obedient little sheep.

Once in the bathroom I found I was so nervous that I actually did have to pee. I shut myself in a stall, trying not to think of what was coming. When I stepped back out, I was met by the sight of Crystal, Carrie, and Claire. They'd been waiting.

They said nothing as I went to the sink. Carrie was perched on the edge of the porcelain, and in her effort to remain superior she stubbornly refused to move so that I had to awkwardly reach around her to soap my hands and turn the faucet. Water splashed onto her butt as I washed my hands.

Seeing me finish, Crystal finally broke the silence, "Have you been avoiding me?"

The question startled me enough that I almost laughed. She sounded like an angry friend, not like my nemesis.

"No," I said, managing to cover my humor with a shrug and a shifty glance. "Why?"

"We can never find you at recess," Carrie spoke up, but I found it harder to take her seriously with the seat of her pants all wet. She looked like she'd wet herself.

"Oh," I murmured. I'd been hiding under the slide, as per usual, but these girls wouldn't be caught dead near the slide. Only trolls went there. "I've been around."

"Right," Crystal stated. Her eyes were narrowed and I grew nervous again.

"So…" I shifted awkwardly. The last thing I wanted was to hear what Crystal wanted from me, but this waiting was killing me so I spurred the conversation onward, "This favor…what exactly do you want from me?"

The three of them laughed, identical little bell laughs that made me feel about an inch tall.

"Don't look so scared," Crystal drew closer. "We aren't going to eat you."

The words were in no way comforting. I felt like a sheep led into the wolves' trap.

"Yeah, there's no way we'd ever be hungry enough to eat all of you," Claire giggled.

I blushed, but Crystal stepped closer still and I wanted nothing more than to step back. But stepping back meant bumping against the sink and, inadvertently, against Carrie. I held my ground, but just barely.

"You see, I'm not doing so well in math," Crystal explained to me.

I blinked and wondered if I'd heard her right. Surely she wasn't actually asking me for help with her schoolwork. There was no way it would be so simple.

It wasn't.

"Do you know that red notebook Mrs. Ward always keeps in her desk?" Crystal asked.

My stomach clenched. Everyone knew about that red book. It was kept locked away in Mrs. Ward's desk, and inside of it was every test she ever gave—with all the answers. Every kid dreamed of sneaking a peak at it, but there was never a chance. She gave us no opportunities.

I told Crystal this, but she didn't seem too concerned.

"That's why we need you," Crystal clarified. "She'd never expect you to take the book, and that makes you the perfect person for it."

"No," The words tumbled from my lips without thought, "I can't do it."

Carrie slid from the sink, landing close behind me. Her breath stirred the hair on my neck and I shook slightly. I waited for them to move, for someone to lunge or scream or hit. Claire and Crystal were watching me very closely.

_Wolves_.

But no one moved, and instead Crystal flashed her teeth at me and said, "You will."

She was so sure, and her confidence unnerved me, because deep down I knew she was right. I would steal that book. I would do it because she told me to, and because I was terrified of her.

Sheep always fell victim to the wolves.

xxxxx

My mother picked me up from school, as always, but she didn't seem to notice my sour mood.

My mother had fared the divorce much better than my father. She had lost weight, and though she was still slightly plump and curvy, she wore clothes that made her look years younger and much prettier than I previously had thought she could look.

Her dark brown hair, which had once been frizzy and unkempt like mine, was now permed into small little ringlets and was always swept up into immaculate styles. She wore makeup now, which she'd never done before, and I kind of thought her bright pink lips and permanently blushing cheeks looked rather silly. Her nails changed color almost every week, but were painted mostly in neon pinks.

But she looked pretty, and she definitely felt pretty. She felt changed.

I suppose divorce does that to some people. Whereas my father was a more broken, lost man than before, my mother had somehow thrived. She took to her new life with enthusiasm that I couldn't quite match.

In the few years since they'd split, my mother had gotten her first real job, moved us into a new house across town, and seemed to have shed a few years from her life.

She'd really just shed my father from her life, but it seemed to suit her well.

"How was school, honey?" She asked, sending me a brief look before she had to merge into traffic.

I sighed, picking at the edge of my threadbare backpack, and took a moment to reply. I debated telling her the truth, but finally settled for the trustworthy, "Fine."

We were silent for a moment and I slumped against the window. Outside Detroit's suburbs passed quickly. Soon we'd be in the heart of the city, near my father's precinct, and I felt almost uneasy to see him.

Earth, Wind, and Fire, "After the Love Has Gone", had come on the radio. I listened closely to the first few versus, but just as I had begun to like the song my mom turned the channel and the Bee Gees filled the car.

She shifted uncomfortably and looked at me, "Well? Nothing interesting happened today?"

"Little Mickey threw up at lunch," I said quickly. It was a lie, and I don't know why I said it, but once I did my mother wrinkled her nose and pretty much dropped the subject.

"Poor Little Mickey," she commented. "Fourth grade seems tough."

_You have no idea_, I thought.

xxxxx

The whole weekend was a waste. I couldn't stop thinking about Crystal's order to steal Mrs. Ward's book, and it ruined my mood for the entire stay with my dad. I hadn't seen him all week and I couldn't even enjoy it.

I spent most of Saturday at his police station, surrounded by familiar officers. I wondered if I should tell someone what was bothering me, but no one asked and so I didn't say.

Besides, my father was always better at the precinct and I didn't want to spoil that. It was like he was his old self the moment he put on his uniform. It's like how wearing a Halloween costume can sometimes allow you to pretend you're someone else.

The uniform worked like a mask.

In his black slacks and cap, he looked more impressive and brave. Normal. No one would guess he never washed his dishes or that sometimes he forgot to shave for a few days too many.

So I kept quiet and read _Sounder _while hauled up behind Harriet's desk in the precinct lobby. She fed me candy and snuck me pop.

Sunday evening my dad let me eat dinner in front of the television so that I could watch the movie showing on ABC. He dropped in and out of sleep in his new recliner, not really watching the screen. When I'd laugh he'd wake up enough to chuckle before dosing off again.

The sun had long since gone down, and the movie credits were rolling, when I finally turned and nudged him awake.

"Dad?" I asked, and in the darkened living room I felt slightly braver. The only light in the room came from the TV screen and I felt on the verge of confessing my problem. I nudged him harder, "Dad?"

He stirred and did this weird snore-snort thing that made me giggle. Blinking, he looked over at me, and seemed a bit confused. "Yeah, Mary?"

"I have to tell you something," I told him, scooting to the edge of the couch to get closer.

"Hmm," He frowned and shut his eyes again. "How about you go tell your mother, Mary, I'm tired."

I blinked, and realized with dismay that the weekend had slipped by and I hadn't thought of a solution to my problem. I should have said something sooner.

Sighing, I tossed a blanket over my father and after cleaning up my dishes I retreated to my room.

xxxxx

Monday was unbearable.

I had never dreaded recess so much in my life, and despite my silent prayers, there was no divine intervention. The clocks kept ticking without mercy, and before I could think of an escape, the bell rang for recess and the classroom began to clear out.

Next to me, Claire sucked in a breath. I wondered if she was feeling nervous as well, but when I caught her eyes she just shrugged and rose to leave.

Though I quite decidedly hated the girl, I almost reached out to grab her arm and beg her to stay.

'_Don't make me do this!_' I wanted to yell, but instead I just let her pass without a word.

Crystal gave me a look before leaving the room. Though her expression had been unreadable, I imagined I saw an underlying threat in her dark eyes.

I realized then that it wasn't only Mrs. Ward left in the room with me. That kid, Bobby, was still at his desk at the front. I cringed when I remembered that he was still restricted from recess due to his bad behavior. This would change my plan slightly.

"Aren't you going out to recess, Mary?" Mrs. Ward's question shocked me.

Trying not to look so suspicious, I pulled my book out my desk and flipped to a random page. I replied, "I'm just going to stay in and read, if that's alright."

My voice shook. I heard it and I hoped Mrs. Ward heard it too. I willed her to be wary. I hoped she'd send me out to the blacktop with the rest of the kids, which would give me an excuse to deny Crystal her request. But she didn't even blink before turning back to her stack of papers.

"Fine by me," She shrugged, uncapping her red pen and getting to work.

Five minutes passed, but they felt like an eternity. I stared blankly at my book, not really comprehending the words. I could hear my heartbeat and it felt louder than normal. I felt as if Mrs. Ward should be able to hear it.

Bobby had slumped over his papers, refusing to work, and I thought he must be asleep. Mrs. Ward had given up trying to make him work and now seemed determined to ignore the boy. They were both so caught up in their own worlds that they didn't noticed me jump when Carrie ran into the room, short of breath and eyes wide. Bobby didn't move at all.

"What is it, Carrie?" Mrs. Ward half-rose from her seat, already attentive to the panting girl.

"I think there might be a fight," Carrie said, pointing back behind her to indicate something was up in the schoolyard.

I thought surely Mrs. Ward would see through this farce. Carrie could have lied much better than that. The possibility of a fight wasn't that spectacular, but to my astonishment Mrs. Ward stood briskly and followed Carrie to the door. She cast one look back, but it wasn't me that she sized up, it was Bobby, still asleep at his desk.

Not perceiving a threat from the boy, the older woman left.

I tried to swallow but found it was a strain to pull in air.

_Don't dawdle, Mary, _I scolded myself. The only thing worse than stealing from Mrs. Ward would be getting caught while stealing.

I stood and slipped quietly to her desk. With shaking hands I flipped through the stacks on top of the desk, hoping she had left the book out by mistake. But she hadn't. It was in one of the drawers.

My gaze wavered over to where Bobby sat, not too far away from me. In fact that was the closest we'd been to each other all week. So much for avoiding him. But to my relief his forehead was still pressed against his worksheet, and all I could see was a mess of brown hair. No sign that he'd woken or heard me.

I reached for the first drawer, looking quickly at the empty doorway before sliding the drawer open. Pencils, erasers, and a magazine.

Shoot. Feeling panicked, I moved onto the next drawer, but unlike the first, this one protested as I pulled. The rollers squealed and the metal groaned as I yanked it open. The noise made me pause and I looked back over towards the hall.

The doorway was still empty.

I flipped through a few folders, and two envelops, but there was no red notebook.

I knew I should give up, just tell Crystal I couldn't find it, and retreat. Take my punishment and move on.

But…

I looked at the drawer to the left, which was slightly larger than the rest, and the paint on the handle had been worn off from years of use. Had that been the one I'd seen her store the notebook in?

My fingers skimmed the handle, but when I tried to pull it seemed to stick. I pulled harder, thinking it was jammed like the last one, but it still wouldn't give. It was locked.

"No," I muttered, pulling the handle just a bit harder as if that would matter.

Before I could think to give up, walk away, or even move, I had the sinking feeling of someone watching me. A shiver went up my spine, and I somehow knew it wasn't Mrs. Ward that caught me.

I looked up and met the green, confused eyes of Bobby.

xxxxxx

**Four Brothers is owned by Paramount Pictures**


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